


Not Really There

by AllonsyJawn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coma, I'm trash for sad headcannons, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 07:27:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14869340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllonsyJawn/pseuds/AllonsyJawn
Summary: Not an AU, more like a theory. Dr. John Watson is treating a patient, a patient he has grown to care about. That patient, William Sherlock Scot Holmes, is dealing with reality in any way he can, but he needs his Doctor's help. It's kind of an alternative to how Series 3 could have started… if Moffat were more evil. Probably a one shot. I suppose another chapter may be possible.





	Not Really There

This is not an AU, it's just a theory (not one I would support or wish for because, ouch) about the strange world Sherlock lives in. It's kind of an alternative to how Series 3 could have started… if Moffat were more evil. Probably a one shot. I suppose another chapter may be possible.

 

Dr. John Watson was just about ready to head home for the day. His patients had been dealt with, his paperwork was done, but there was something he had to do first. This was his routine, every day before he left the hospital, he had to at least check on the man in room 221.

John knocked quietly on the door, catching the attention of the nurse taking the patients vital signs. "Afternoon, Molly," he said cheerfully.

She smiled at him, scribbling something down quickly on the patient's chart. "Hello Dr. Watson. Back to see our friend here?"

"Of course. How is he?" John asked, taking the chart from her.

"Steady. No signs of consciousness."

John nodded sadly, the news was never very good, but at least it wasn't terrible. "I won't be long today. Mary is making roast tonight, I've got to get home for that."

Molly chuckled. "Leaving our patient to spend time with your wife again? I swear he gets jealous when you go home early."

John sat in the chair next to the bed, pulling his work bag onto his lap. "Ah, he knows I'll be back the next day." He assured her.

Molly nodded, patting John on the shoulder as she headed out the door. "I think he does know that. See you tomorrow, Dr. Watson."

He waved her off and leaned back in his chair, casting a sad glance at his favorite patient. Wild black curls lay perfectly still against the man's pale, angular face. The name on the chart in John's hands read William S. S. Holmes. Someone had found him a few years ago in a local drug den, unconscious after overdosing. He'd been comatose ever since. They'd tried to find him visitors, but it seemed very few people knew him. His only living family member was a brother, Mike, and they didn't appear to have a very close relationship. He'd only been to see him once or twice, and he called John every four months or so to check in on his condition. Mike covered the cost of the private room, but his lack of interest bothered John.

Before the private room, Mr. Holmes had been staying in a room with another patient, a conscious one, but the mere presence of the man had appeared to agitate him. Anderson, that was the other patient's name, he's been staying in the hospital long-term for intense Chemotherapy treatments. He'd watch television far too late into the night, and it seemed to bother Mr. Holmes somewhere in his subconscious. He'd scrunch his face up in disgust and mutter something about drug busts.

Or course, that was back when he was talking.

"How are we today, Mr. Holmes?" John asked, patting him on the shoulder.

The man's face twitched in response, the way it usually did when John started talking. John liked to think they had become friends, even if the man would never recognize him when he woke up. If he woke up. He shook the sad thought out of his head.

"Sorry, I think we'll have to cut this short tonight. We should be able to get through one story, if we hurry," John said rummaging in his bag for a book.

He pulled the large volume out and set it on his knees. "I've brought my favorite book again. I know we read about two-thirds of The Hobbit already, but I think I need a bit of a break. I'm tired of doing the voices."

The man laid there, unmoving. John sighed, trying to find the story they'd stopped at last time. Two years now—that was how long it had been since Mr. Holmes had spoken. He used to mutter in his constant sleep, just a few sentences or phrases here and there, but it was enough to give them all hope for him. About two years ago, while John was in the room reading him a book of fairy tales, he'd heard what could be the man's last sentence.

"John," Mr. Holmes had muttered. 

He liked to assume he was talking to him, but in all reality it was unlikely that he even knew someone was there with him. He assumed he must have known another John before he overdosed. Whatever the case, John always tried to answer him as though he could hear. "Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Angels…so sorry…have to jump…my note…John…"

"Jump? What do you mean?" he'd asked, looking at him in concern.

The beeping machine next to him slowed, and then alarms went off.

Holmes was flat lining.

Dr. Watson called for help, getting to work immediately to resuscitate the man. One of the stupid medical students had managed to trip over the cords on his way in, ripping the IV straight out of the patient's arm. The intern, Richard Brook, had been thrown out of his program the next day.

They had managed to save him before it was too late, but his condition was worse. That was the last time the man had spoken. His vitals were never as strong as they had been, and aside from the odd twitch, he lived his life as a statue.

John tried to chase the memory from his head, talking aloud to himself and his patient. "Do you remember why this is my favorite?" he held up the old book. "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Someone bought me this as a joke, you know, when I was a kid. My name is in the book; Dr. John Watson. It's not that uncommon of a name, someone was bound to get it again, I guess. So, when I was ten, someone bought me this old thing as a joke on my name, and just to show them up, I read the whole thing. I just think it's funny, your last name being Holmes and all. It's like it's us in the stories, eh? I must have read it to you a hundred times by now, sorry if it's getting boring."

He stared at Mr. Holmes, placing on hand on the man's arm. "You're going to get through this, you know. If anyone could pull through, you could. Then, you and me, we'll go have a pint together, alright? If you remember me. If you even have any idea who I am. You and your doctor, we'll go and have a drink together at Angelo's, that little bar across the street I told you about. We'll talk about detective stories, huh? I got married a few months ago. I know I didn't tell you, sorry. You couldn't get out in time to be my best man, but you could still be my best friend. Just wake up," he said, frowning. "Come on. Just wake up, give me a sign, anything."

There was a long pause, and finally Watson leaned back and looked at the book. "Okay. The Adventure of The Empty House, there's a good one…"

The patient's eyes darted back and forth under his eyelids. There was a world in there, a place that no one except Mr. Holmes could go.

Sherlock Holmes sat in his flat, all alone, staring at the same case file. It was a simple one, or at least it looked simple, but it seemed like it had taken forever for him to crack it. The windows of 221B Baker Street were drawn shut, and no light filtered through the dusty air. The power was out. Why was the power out? He could not remember. He would have to speak to Mrs. Hudson about that.

It was so dark in his flat. He couldn't even remember the last time he had left his desk. This case was just so difficult, and the random thoughts in his head didn't help. He had to continuously remind himself what he was doing. Why was his focus so scattered? He was a genius, this shouldn't be so hard. Why were the lights out? He could not remember. He would have to speak to Mrs. Hudson about that.

Where's John?

He looked up wondering why he was alone. Where was his flat-mate?

Who was he?

He frowned. Why would he wonder who he was? He was Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. Life had always been like this. Moriarty was to blame, that was it. He had to solve this case or he could not be with John, or Molly, or Lestrade. That's why he had to jump off the roof. He had to jump into nothing. Then why was he still alive? Why did he remember watching John at his grave? Why were the lights out in here? He would have to speak to Mrs. Hudson about that.

He sighed, grabbing his head. It hurt. He was so tired. He just wanted to go to sleep. Why was this case so important?

Right. John told him to solve it. That was why it was important. He remembered that. Every day, John told him to solve this case. But why didn't he remember seeing John? He was so tired.

"John," he whispered into the darkness. "John I just want to sleep. Can I go to sleep?"

"No," a voice answered him.

Sherlock looked up excitedly. There was John, sitting across the dark flat in his chair by the fireplace. "John," Sherlock said, running across the room and falling to the floor in front of John's chair. He grabbed at his friends knees. This wasn't right, it wasn't like him. He was supposed to be cold and logical, but he was neither here. "John, you're here. John, I jumped off a building, but I'm still here. I'm so confused. Nothing makes sense here. It looks like our flat, but the lights are going out around me, John. Can I go to sleep now, John?"

"No, Sherlock, you can't sleep," John said, not looking at his friend. It looked like he was holding a book in his hands, but there was nothing there. "You can't go to sleep."

"I jumped off a building, John."

"You haven't hit the ground," John told him. "If you go to sleep, you'll hit the pavement, and you won't survive this time. Dr. John Watson. It's not that uncommon of a name, someone was bound to get it again, I guess. So, when I was ten, someone bought me this old thing as a joke on my name, and just to show them up, I read the whole thing. I just think it's funny, your last name being Holmes and all. It's like it's us in the stories, eh? I must have read it to you a hundred times by now, sorry if it's getting boring."

"You're not making sense. Nothing is. How do I do this, John?"

"You're going to get through this, you know. If anyone could pull through, you could," John said, setting his hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Help me, then, John. Help me solve this case, and I'll get out of here."

"You and your doctor, we'll go and have a drink together at Angelo's."

"I'd love that. Take me there now. Let's leave, right now. If I can't sleep, let me get out of this room. Tell me how to get out of this dark, dark place, John."

"I know I didn't tell you, sorry," John said flatly.

"That's okay," he said, "just tell me now. Please, I'm not as smart as I thought I was. I've been in here for so long, John. You're my best friend. Help me."

"You could still be my best friend. Just wake up," John said, looking at the door.

Sherlock turned and looked at the door. "I can just leave? I don't think I can, John. The case isn't finished. You have to take me outside."

"Give me a sign. Anything," John said, still looking at the door.

Sherlock stood on shaky legs, walking slowly to the door. "I don't know how to do this. John, is it locked?"

"The Adventure of The Empty House, there's a good one. It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honorable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances..." John said from his chair, looking at the invisible book."

"A new case, John? I haven't finished the last one," Sherlock said, trembling with his hand on the door. John just stared forward, looking at him. Sherlock took a deep breath. "Okay. For you. I'll do it."

Sherlock opened the door.

He stepped forward.

Suddenly he was in the brightly lit halls of 221 B Baker Street. His coat and gloves were suddenly on. His mind was clear, but blank. John stepped out into the hall with him, pulling on his own coat. "We better get going, Sherlock?"

"Going? Where?"

"Judge Ronald Adair was murdered, remember? Lestrade called us, asked us to come down to the Yard and review the suspects.

"We…we're on a case. What were we just doing? Just now, where were we?"

"What are you talking about, Sherlock? We woke up, had breakfast, I read the paper and you experimented with chemicals. It's just a normal day."

Sherlock popped his collar up over his neck, smiling softly. "Of course. I'm Sherlock Holmes. You're John Watson. The game is on, John. It feels like it has been a long time."

"I'm still here, Sherlock. I'll be here as long as you need me."

They headed out to Scotland Yard, the detective and his Doctor. They stopped by Angelo's on the way.

Dr. John Watson was only on the third page of the story when he heard a voice. He looked up, expecting to see someone at the door. There was no one there. He slowly turned his head, staring at the patient lying unconscious in the bed.

"John…the game, John…"

Dr. Watson dropped the book, calling loudly for Molly. He grabbed the patient's shoulders without thinking, grinning from ear to ear. "Come on. Mr. Holmes. Say something else. You can do this."

"Bloody…bloody Anderson. Can't…work with him John…"

John flat out hugged him. He didn't mean to, but his heart was swelling with excitement. There were tears in his eyes. He heard Nurse Molly Hooper behind him, asking what was happening.

"He's talking again, Molly. He's pulling through. He not here yet, but he hears me. He can hear me, Molly. I won't let go. I'll be here, every day, until he comes back."

William Sherlock Scot Holmes smiled in his sleep.


End file.
